Thursday, August 9, 2007


wind champagned
against the breath
from Los Angeles to courts
it’s the sound of wood hitting skin

hello, dark juice
you can let a butt drop
my hand is a flame

that hit tasted like a prawn
the cuisine, curve

I’m going to be her lumber
a thicket there

chiaroscuro head
it does smell peppery

I think I remember
Urine Bob

the flat blade whips

she brings the bug down with
her eye